


damp polos

by ironicHeadtilt



Category: Les Miserables
Genre: Highschool AU, M/M, Private School AU, Smut, Vague storyline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-31 22:28:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3995431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicHeadtilt/pseuds/ironicHeadtilt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blurb of discursive storyline; Enjolras is a poor high school student attending Bishop LeBlond on scholarships. E/G</p>
            </blockquote>





	damp polos

**Author's Note:**

> This took way too fucking long to write and in the end I just had to scrap most of it so this is what's left. I'm sorry.

The dryer didn't completely dry the collar of his polo. It was chafing his neck and made him feel like he had a sunburn. He'd tried to use a hair dryer to dry it - sitting on the edge of the tub of his small bathroom with all but his shirt on - but the thick material wasn't going to relinquish its dampness.   
  
Tugging at it only made it worse, but that didn't stop Enjolras from doing it anyway. He promised himself he would go and buy another polo the moment he had the money. Having only one just didn't allow for the small tragedies.   
  
He parked in his semi-official spot, turned off his car and slunk back in his seat. He still had five minutes before he had to walk in. Anyway, he wasn't much for schmoozing in the commons; especially since many of his friends would be hanging in the locker room until the bell rang. He sipped at his coffee, watching the Freshmen as they were dropped off by their businessman dads or soccer moms.   
  
Bishop LeBlond Memorial was a necessary evil. Enjolras supposed that was what all education ultimately was, especially in the American school system, but LeBlond exceeded these levels on both fronts; necessary and evil.   
  
He heaved a painful sigh before plastering on his best smile. He was here on someone else's dollar, technically. The old women wouldn't exactly be happy to see him in his natural state.   
  
At least he had some experience applying for scholarships.   
  
He puffed himself up and opened the car door. Brisk morning wind pushed itself into his car and quickened his step towards the entrance to the school. He didn't particularly mind the cold, but this early in the morning, it reminded him of lonesomeness and winter break. He held his empty coffee mug with cold hands.   
  
The hallways felt dim despite the fluorescent lights, and the students seem similarly darkened. A stooped head, leaning into a locker, was illuminated by the deep blue of an e-cig, a hand folded haphazardly through mop hair.   
  
Enjolras turned his head, his eyes passing over the student without skipping a beat, ducking into his own locker.   
  
A ways away, girls were carding between lockers, talking with the whole hallway as much as they were talking with each other, their heavy skirts swishing at different lengths on their thighs. Some tug at their hems, side glancing at the teachers standing at the doors of classrooms.   
  
The five minute bell hadn't rung and Enjolras already had everything he needed from his locker. If he went to his class now, he'd be sitting in a quiet room with a quiet teacher.   
  
"Hey," A gangly boy in a polo two sizes too small said just a touch too loud for 7 in the morning. He looked like he could be an Abercrombie and Fitch model but also like he could be your kid cousin. "Did you do that AP assignment last night?"   
  
"Yes," Enjolras admitted, turning back to his locker to get it out. "Just paraphrase, or so help me, Marius-"   
  
"Have I ever let you down?" If Enjolras didn't know Marius, he'd think that was kind of a douche-y thing to say.   
  
He supposed he should be opposed to cheating, but it felt more like working the system to their advantage; plus, Marius needed as much help as he could get just to survive the rigors of the stern (but admittedly fair) AP Language teacher.   
  
"Oh, and Courfeyrac was looking for you this morning." Marius said, shoving the offered assignment into the front of the notebook he was holding.   
  
Enjolras rolled his eyes. He wasn't entirely concerned with what Courfeyrac wanted to tell him.   
  
Whatever it was, it was probably the gossip of the day; which could really range anywhere between real dramatics to the usual bitching that seemed to be the style of bored, pretty girls. Enjolras didn't blame the bored, pretty girls (it was within their right to bitch), but he really wished people wouldn't make such a big deal out of their personal lives.

  
The five minute bell rang. Marius had wandered slowly back to his locker directly across the hall from Enjolras, but then started sprinting in a burst of energy, having remembered there were only a limited number of borrowable calculators in first period algebra.   
  
Enjolras started down the hall to his first class. He caught eyes with students he knew in the rooms he walked pass, acknowledging them with a lazy expression.   
  
When he plopped himself down in his assigned seat, he realized the day hadn't even begun and it already felt like he'd been out of bed too long. He always had a long day ahead of him, and he somewhat enjoyed the busyness, but it also felt like he was always running on nothing but forced determination and black coffee (he realized he was probably too young to be as dependent on coffee as he was.)   
  
The final bell finally sounded and the announcements crackled over the PA.   
  


Autopilot engaged.

  
++++   
  
Enjolras slung his backpack over one shoulder, taking his empty mug in hand, and looked down the hallway at the wild crowd of teens. He sighed inwardly and trudged down the hall, opposite the sea of people, praying to the good Lord that he wouldn't have to talk to the youth minister.   
  
Mr. Henris had a nasty habit of picking students at random as they were leaving and having a long winded, self-righteous chat with them. If you were lucky, Sister Claire would notice and bail you out, but even she couldn't perform miracles; you would still be stuck for atleast five minutes.   
  
Thankfully, Mr. Henris had already chosen his victim. Unfortunately, it was Cosette. This was terrible news. She would never tell him to shut up; she was going to be there a while unless someone intervened. Enjolras peaked into Sister Claire's room to find she wasn't there. It was looking pretty grim. Enjolras braced himself, sending a prayer Heavenward before coming to Cosette's rescue.   
  
"... And I pray for the girls of this school everyday. Every day I dedicate my rosary to teen girls struggling in our halls; it's just as important an issue to me as men discerning the priesthood-"   
  
"You don't say?" Cosette responded, adjusting the backpack that was falling off her slender shoulder.   
  
"Oh, definitely. Women have a very distinct role in the church. They have this sort of genius about empathy and caring that us men simply can't understand. I pray that you use your genius to help others, everyday-"   
  
"Yes, everyday." She agreed, knowing every word she said got her another unwanted minute of conversation. Enjolras took this opportunity to cut in.   
  
"Hey, Cosette, could you explain this to me?" He said, pulling out a slightly wrinkled paper from his bag.   
  
"Oh," she said, thankfulness evident in her sparkling eyes. "Yes, of course."   
  
"Enjolras! Hey! I don't see you serving mass like you used to," Mr. Henris said. Enjolras cussed colorfully under his breath.   
  
"Yeah, I had to get a job and the hours didn't fit anymore," Enjolras lied, grinning and touching Cosette's elbow to start moving down the hallway.   
  
"That's a shame. Are you still discerning?"   
  
"When aren't I?" Enjolras joked, forcing a laugh. Mr. Henris laughed uproariously. "All right, we'll see you later."   
  
"Have a great day, you two," he said, returning to his room with a tear in his eye from the laughter, apparently tickled to death by what Enjolras had said.   
  
They sped walked, putting some distance between them and him before talking.   
  
"Thank you," Cosette whispered in a sing song voice.   
  
"It was nothing," Enjolras said, keeping his eyes forward.   
  
"So that paper," she said, taking it from his hands.   
  
"That was just an excuse to-"   
  


"I know," Cosette chuckled, running a hand through her hair as they made it to the commons. Marius was waiting at the door, car keys and iPhone in hand.   
  
"Be careful," Cosette said, tucking her jacket around her body and scuttling out the glass door while Marius held it open, then followed her out.   
  
"Thenadier, stop, I have to talk to you."   
  
"I have work, dude! I got to go." Eponine was walking backwards, her coat in her arms. Javert was in pursuit.   
  
"No, you have to-"   
  
"I told you this morning," Eponine interrupted, putting her coat on, "I couldn't make it. I seriously have to go, right now."   
  
"Thenadier! Get back in here," Javert was standing at the door Eponine had just left.   
  
Javert turned back around with some effort and made the walk of shame back to his classroom. Enjolras acted like he hadn't seen any of that, exiting the school as quickly as possible, knowing Courfeyrac was going to be envious of him tomorrow.   
  
-   
  
His home always smelled faintly of industrial laundry detergent. He supposed it was better than what it used to smell like; his neighborhood since childhood had undergone some very needed renovations, on the begrudged dollar of the local government. The Federal government had passed an ordinance about the upkeep of sewers, especially ones in neighborhoods, that City Hall had originally ignored. That was, until they heard about the substantial fine a neighboring town was given; then, all of a sudden, it became top priority.   
  
It wasn't perfect, despite their best half-assed efforts. The natural scent of the air was still strongly chloric and the grass was dying in splotches that didn't exactly make you want to send the children out to play. (There were other reasons not to send the children out to play.)   
  
Enjolras let himself in. The empty house greeted him. From the front door, he could see out the back. The carpet had long been ripped up, leaving bare wooden planks as a creaky replacement. Clothes cluttered nearly every corner, statues and photographs and dishes and unfinished projects were wedged into clothes piles like bodies in the snow, with boxes overflowing with fabric and wires and papers; his mother was a low-key pack rat.   
  
He walked into the kitchen and placed his mug on the tower of dishes accumulating in the sink, making another mental note about doing them. He'd put it off way too long, as evidenced by the oily smell. Enjolras was grateful for how cold it was. If this had been during the summer, it would've been absolutely rancid.   
  
Enjolras tiptoed his way up the stairs, finding clear spots tentatively. He was careful not to knock down the pictures hanging along the wall: a photo of him and his mother, a painting of the Virgin Mary, vintage looking photos of supposed ancestors of his.   
  
Upstairs, there were only three rooms in total: his room, his mom's room and the bathroom. He entered his room before throwing down his book bag. He had about an hour before he had a practice to go to.   
  
He walked over to his window. It lead out onto a rusted (but operational) fire escape; the sill was all splinters and chipped white paint. He wavered for a moment, his fingers gliding across the space under the pane.   
  
He lifted the window, releasing dirt and paint chips that'd weathered away since the last time he opened it. Cold wind flooded into the room. Enjolras opened his sock drawer, pulling out a half empty pack of cigarettes - his emergency pack - before climbing out the window.   
  
He knew the smell would stick to his hair and clothes and linger on his skin; that his mother wouldn't like it, but that she wouldn't say anything; that it was a habit he really couldn't afford. He regretted middle school more and more the farther he got from it; mostly for how ridiculous it seemed in hindsight. He was sure he'd experienced his teenage years early, and to keep up the trend, he was already 40.   
  
Right then, though, he felt approximately 8 years old, smoking a shitty cigarette and fuming over the day. It went from internal ranting, to self-pity, to self-chastising, to ratiocinating, all within the length of one cigarette and Enjolras ended up more confused about what he was mad about on the second cigarette - a real self-indulgence - then when he started the first.   
  
He untucked his flip phone from his pocket, folding it open.   
  
Combeferre had already sent him a message, warning him about Academic Team.   
  
<I'll make sure to pen that in.> Enjolras sent back, unsure if it was supposed to be biting or not.   
  
<We could beg one of the jv to play> Combeferre replied. The thought of that was extremely irritating.   
  
<No. I said I'll pen it in.>   
  
<Are you basing this decision on pride?>   
  
<probably> The wind blew. He was starting to get uncomfortably cold.   
  
<Okay. Pen it in then.>   
  
Enjolras finished his smoke quickly and wrapped his arms around his torso. He wasn't quite ready to go back inside, even as the cold seeped into his sweater and khakis. Instead, he stared at the brick wall in front of him.   
  
The window across the way didn't have a fire escape (apparently having rusted away years ago, by the look of the random holes where anchors would've been) which left the wall incredibly bare. The window itself was paint shut, mildewy curtains drawn, and whoever was home, Enjolras had never met before, never even seen, as far as he could remember. The alley below was home to a couple of extremely old dumpsters and strewn with lone garbage bags, some of which were surrounded by loose trash, ripped from them by countless stray cats: cereal boxes, broken lamps, newspapers, etc.   
  
Enjolras was very familiar with the scene; not because he went out on the fire escape often, but because it hadn't changed in probably seven years. It was almost a comfort, in a way. He shivered, the wind picking up as it gust through the narrow alley

  


<what do you think about the new neighbor?> Enjolras texted Combeferre back with numb fingers.   
  
<I don't know him.>   
  
<first impression>   
  
Combeferre took a long time to respond. Enjolras continued to freeze.   
  
<he's a fuckboy> Enjolras laughed out loud, a noise in contrast to his surroundings.   
  
<Astute.>   
  
<I'm basing this off you>   
  
<I'm a fuckboy?>   
  
<No. You seem to think Grantaire is, though.> Enjolras was somehow surprised to see Grantaire's name. It seemed too personal.   
  
<Astute, again.> Enjolras sent back, knowing it didn't really continue the conversation.   
  
<So you do?>   
  
<I do what?>   
  
<Think he's a fuckboy.>   
  
<You need to stop texting the word "fuckboy." I can't take you seriously.>   
  
<I can cuss if I want to.> Then a few seconds later: <Answer the question.>   
  
<Yeah, he's definitely a fuckboy.>   
  
<We're going to have a chat at practice.>   
  
<Aren't we chatting right now?>   
  
<I'm saving it for practice.>   
  
If he'd wanted dramatics, he would've texted Courfeyrac. He shoved his phone back into his pocket before climbing back into his room. It wasn't much warmer inside, but at least it wasn't windy.   
  
In a sudden burst of determination, Enjolras made the brave decision to change out of his uniform. He wiggled open a drawer, searched it quickly then slammed it shut. He did this with every drawer twice before giving up, opening the first drawer again and yanking out sweat pants and a t-shirt. That was about the level of fanciness that was expected of him.   
  
He caught sight of himself in the mirror on his way to the bathroom, clothes hanging off his arm.   
  
He wished he could say he didn't do it often because he regularly reminded himself he was above scrutinizing the way he looked, but he caught himself doing it anyway. That was another thing he hoped would end with adolescence.   
  
He looked like a girl. He was purely academic (no sports); a beanpole with slender features and a mop of blonde curly hair. He found a lot of people assumed he was quiet and confused by nature, and he also found that he'd meet their expectations just because it was easier than trying to prove himself all the time. He reasoned there wasn't a lot he could do to fix how he looked, especially to his stereotype-crazy peers at Bishop LeBlond.   
  
It bothered him regardless.   
  
He jumped in the shower, hoping despite experience, that he could get the smell of smoke off him. He washed his hair twice, scrubbed his fingers, brushed his teeth (he brushed his teeth in the shower) and it made him feel just a little bit worse.   
  
He had forgotten to grab a towel, so he dried off with some t-shirt that was in the bathroom. He attempted for the millionth time to tame his hair, but as soon as it dried, it frizzed and tangled so he couldn't even run his fingers through it without becoming hopelessly caught. He pressed it to his head, pulling it back and holding it there. He let go and it sprung back up.   
  
He eyed the disposable razor, fingers restless.   
  
He left the bathroom.   
  


-

  


Enjolras rolled out of bed at 4 am, shivering either from the cold or the exhaustion.

  


The bathroom was unearthly bright, making the whole open-your-eyes thing even harder.

  


It took a few minutes for the hot water heater to kick in, making the first minute of his shower shocking. It helped wake him up, at least.

  


He hadn't been able to get much sleep the night before and he could definitely feel that now. Yawning and stretching under the water, he made the executive decision he was going to take his damn time. The fucking donut shop could fucking wait. 

  


The best part was his mom wasn't going to have to shower since she didn't work weekends, meaning he could use up all the hot water. 

  


It felt like he never saw her; that she never got to see him. He mulled it over in his head, their separate schedules, knowing there were times they could talk. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. He remembered loving his mom, but it felt so long ago and it wasn't cuddly even then. He supposed it was awkward since she was so young. No, he knew there were a lot of things that made it awkward; the age was just the beginning.

  


He shut the water off. He wasn't going back to bed; might as well get started with the day.

  


-

  


Enjolras saw lights in the window of the donut shop, a dim yellow fighting against the dark morning sky. He found it concerning. He was supposed to open up shop. He pulled up, parked, grabbed his pepper spray out of his glove box, unbuckled, and attempted to walk casually up to the door, clutching smooth plastic.

  


He could see through the windows. Someone was behind the counter. A boy, it looked like. Slightly less threatened and a bit more confused, Enjolras entered the building. The door hit him as it swung closed.

  


A small boy, looked ten but acted fifteen, was preparing donuts on the back counter; which was Enjolras' job.

  


"Hey, kid, what-"

  


"Enjolras," A man came from the back of the shop, wiping his hands on a dirty rag.

  


"Mr. Thenardier, is there a problem?" He asked, trying to suppress the sudden energy he was shot with.

  


"You're late,"

  


"Yes, but I was-"

  


"Nuh," He interjected, nodding in the direction of his closet office. Enjolras followed.

  


Industrial sized vats of fillings and frostings were stacked against the wall, blocking the way to the fire extinguisher. A bare lightbulb hung limply from the concrete ceiling. It smelled septic. There wasn't anywhere to sit. Enjolras always found it extremely awkward talking in the dim, enclosed space, and vaguely disconcerting with the condition of his workplace. Mr. Thenardier's desk took up the corner so that it was impossible to sit behind it, forcing his boss to sit at an awkward angle in front of it.

  


"I'm just going to cut to the quick-"

  


"I wasn't technically late. And I meant to be early, but I had car troubles-"

  


"Stop. Listen. I'm glad we had you for the time we did. But at this point I think it's better for everyone if you go a different way."

  


"But-" Thenardier aggressively signaled him to stop.

  


"Look, my son is going to take over. It was nice working with you. Leave."

  


Enjolras ran a hand over his face, his tired mind barely keeping up with the development.

  


"And my pay for last week?"

  


"What about it?"

  


"Can I have it?"

  


Thenardier smiled.

  


"You know, I hired you without putting you in the roll, paid you under the table; helped you, in fact, in tax evasion. I saved you from all that nickeling and diming. But... You technically never worked here. Not in the government's eyes. So, what. about. it?"

  


Silence fell. Enjolras felt sick; he'd allowed himself to be pulled into all this. Convinced that he was somehow helping... But he knew he hadn't been. He'd just helped keep this toxic business in the black.

  


Enjolras opened the door and saw the young boy who was going to be taking over. The kid couldn't have weighed much more than the industrial vats he was going to have to handle. Enjolras peered back at his former boss, who was grinning toothless.

  


"Thank you for your time," Enjolras said, clipped and professional.

  


Enjolras went home.

  


-   
  
Monday was always a late start; the teachers held a conference at the beginning of every week to discuss "issues." Generally, taking from what was inevitably grumbled about throughout the rest of the day, the teachers were lectured about how they were failing in various ways in corralling the hooligan teenagers. They would be given suggestions on how they were to fix the problem. It usually involved confiscating phones, limiting bathroom use and dealing detentions to violators. The faculty hated it more than the students.   
  
That didn't stop them from putting on a show every Monday. Most of the students knew the routine: be civil, obedient, and on time Monday, so you could be rowdy, rebellious, and tardy every other day of the week. This included limiting cell phone use, bathroom breaks, etc, on their own to convince the teachers (so they could convince the vice-principal) they were fine and there was no need to keep a close eye on them at all.   
  
Enjolras knew he was in for a long day when he rolled over in his bed and saw that a power surge had reset his alarm clock. He fumbled for his phone. He was late. Very late.   
  
He bolted out of bed, hurtling down the stairs to the laundry room, which was located in a nook off the kitchen. He dressed in the confined space, shoving his socks in his shoes to carry and hanging the belt off his shoulder. He scuttled down the hallway and slung his backpack off the opposite shoulder and stumbled out the front door.   
  
His car had just enough gas to get him to school and then to the nearest gas station. He hoped.   
  
Enjolras' usual parking spot was taken. He circled the parking lot a few times, bare feet on gas pedals. His toes were going numb from the cold as he found a spot some ways away from the entry. Enjolras yanked his shoes and socks on, toppling from the car with bookbag and belt in hand. He sped-walked, looping his belt as he went. If he could get to the office in time to catch the principal, maybe he would bail him out with a note about how he was helping him this morning. It was a long-shot, but not a groundless hope.   
  
Enjolras walked in the door just in time to miss announcements. The hallway echoed with every small noise, most of the students already in their class. Enjolras' footsteps sounded loud and squeaky.   
  
He didn't make it to the office. Javert glided into view, eyes brightening at the sight of an unguardedly late student; especially seeing that student was Enjolras.   
  
"That's a detention, young man," Javert huffed, hands folded behind his back.   
  
"But-"   
  
"Don't argue." He commanded, continuing down the hall. "I'll see you after school."   
  
"Yessir," Enjolras mumbled, tucking his shirt in more securely before Javert got him on that, too.   
  
-   
  
"Are you gonna tell your mom?" Jehan asked across the aisle. His religion workbook was trying to slip off his desk as he thumbed through his worn textbook.   
  
"No," Enjolras sighed, stacking his books neatly on the corner of his desk. "No reason to."   
  
"That sounds like an excuse," Jehan said, grinning softly.   
  
"Probably," Enjolras admitted. Jehan was shaking his head.   
  
"It's really not that big of a deal," Jehan amended, giving up on his workbook. "I've had a detention before. I don't think they even put it on your record."   
  
"Do you need help?" Enjolras asked, referring to Jehan's unfinished assignment. Jehan looked down at the workbook, pursing his lips.   
  
"Nah. I'm too lazy to even copy at this point." Jehan officially stacked his books, commencing his downward productiveness to wait for the bell. "So I guess that means you'll be serving detention with Grantaire then."   
  
"Oh. What?"   
  
"Yeah, I saw him get a detention this morning. Poor guy. No one told him."   
  
"What'd he do?"   
  
"He was on his phone, walking down the hallway. Alas, Jerry was just around the corner, waiting with bated breath to catch the felon in the act." Jehan put a hand forth in what was supposed to be dramatics. "It was all very movie-like."   
  
"Damn,"   
  
"Yeah, it was pretty cliche, to say the least."   
  
Sister Claire, who had been perched on the stool in the front of the room, overseeing the quiet chatter of the room, climbed down and walked to the back of the classroom, where her desk slumped under neat stacks of papers, graded and ungraded. This usually signaled five-minutes until bell.   
  
"No kidding," Enjolras said, sitting a little straighter in his seat. "How long are detentions usually?"   
  
"Oh, honey," Jehan condescended melodramatically, shaking his head. "That's the most innocent thing I've ever heard you say."   
  
"Not my fault I'm perfect."   
  
"Until today, you mean,"   
  
"Could you lower yourself off your dick long enough to answer the question?"  Enjolras snapped.

  


Jehan eyed him, pursing his lips.

  


The bell rang without further conversation.

  


++++++++

  


Garbage cans smelled like rotten banana peels and moldy indistinguishable leftovers. It was an oddly familiar smell, like rubber Halloween masks or preschool playrooms. Like the latter, he'd learned not to mind the smell too much.

  


Of course no one else gets a detention on Monday, so obviously the only two people with a detention would be paired off to walk around the school, emptying teachers' trash cans and picking up litter.

  


It was quiet; they were quiet.

  


Enjolras hated to break that silence, but then he was getting anxious, trapped in his head.

  


Grantaire seemed perfectly capable of avoiding any and all conversation/unneeded interaction.

  


"What?" Enjolras said, knee-jerk to Grantaire's pointed silence.

  


"What?" Grantaire responded, dusting his hands off, "You know what? Fuck this. We've picked up enough trash. The janitor can do his damn job and get the rest."

  


"Maybe we should do our job and just finish," Enjolras stooped to grab another empty water bottle.

  


"I don't think he ever cleans this hallway. There's too much trash for it all to be recent."

  


"The affluent are always unaware of the filth they create," Enjolras coolly remarked, looking Grantaire in the eye and picking up a crumpled paper.

  


Grantaire glared, starting down the hallway. Enjolras watched him go, face warm. He checked down the hall the opposite way, saw Javert peek his head out of his classroom and decided to follow Grantaire. The trash can rumbled loudly behind him, its wheels slightly off-kilter.

  


"Where are you going?" Enjolras asked, trying to talk over the racket.

  


"To smoke." Enjolras barely heard Grantaire from three steps behind him. He sped up.

  


"What? Are you kidding?"

  


"Don't act so high and mighty. You reeked of it at practice."

  


Enjolras blushed deeply.

  


"I-it wasn't-"

  


"Whatever. Don't follow me." He was already halfway out the back door that lead to the dumpsters.

  


"I'm dumping the trash." Enjolras defended, shoving the can through the door, past Grantaire.

  


It was warmer behind the school than Enjolras anticipated. Grantaire watched him walk past, before propping against the brick wall, pulling out a nearly empty carton of cigarettes from his pants pocket. Enjolras' eyes went wide.

  


"You just have those in your pocket? What, are you actually stupid?"

  


Grantaire rolled his eyes, lighting and taking a puff. The smell was familiar and enticing.

  


"What happened to the e-cigs?" Enjolras asked, delaying the inevitable struggle of lifting the heavy garbage can.

  


"Aren't we talkative all of a sudden?" Grantaire commented, smoke spilling in ugly strings from his nose. He smirked. "E-cigs don't have the aesthetic."

  


Enjolras was thrown for a loop. His mouth opened, because he wanted to say something, but his brain shut it all down because it was stored under "personal opinion."

  


Instead, Enjolras turned his focus on the trash at hand.

  


He cursed himself as he awkwardly tried to heft the garbage can up, and somehow tip it. He tried propping it up by a hip, but was still unable to control it confidently enough to start dumping it. He couldn't have struggled for more than a minute or ten.

  


"Need help?" Grantaire asked, giving no indication of actually wanting to assist. The cigarette dangled dangerously off his ringed fingers.

  


"No," Enjolras huffed, straining to keep the little progress he'd gained. Suddenly, it gave way, the trash can clattering to the pavement. "God fucking Dammit."

  


Grantaire wordlessly stepped forward and crouched, cigarette between his lips. He scooped the loose trash back in with three swift movements, easily lifted the can and shook the contents into the dumpster before silently walking back to the wall, taking the cigarette from his mouth and puffing smoke.

  


Enjolras shuffled awkwardly beside the dumpster, feeling equally indignant and embarrassed. Grantaire looked up at him.

  


"Want one?" He offered the other cigarette in the pack. Enjolras didn't immediately respond. "I'm going to throw it away if you don't."

  


"Why?" Enjolras asked, accepting the offer.

  


"I don't want the pack in my pocket anymore,"

  


"So you don't get caught," Enjolras stated, eyeing his cigarette as Grantaire lit it.

  


"No, it was just annoying me," Grantaire paused. "Don't worry."

  


"I probably should," Enjolras muttered, biting a lip. 

  


A beat passed. They smoked in silence.

  


"It's very warm out," Grantaire said.

  


"Cloudy though,"

  


"It might rain,"

  


Another pause.

  


"The forecast didn't call for rain," Enjolras said, leaning his head farther back.

  


"They're always wrong,"

  


"You act like that's their fault,"

  


"It's their job to be right. That's how they get paid."

  


"Their job is to report what's predicted. They get paid to report."

  


"Maybe I'm not talking about the reporters," Grantaire shrugged.

  


"You act like no one in the working class actually does their job," Enjolras pushed smoke out of his mouth forcefully.

  


"And you do?"

  


"I do what?"

  


"Your job?" Grantaire raised his eyebrows. Enjolras considered what he was trying to get out of his answer.

  


"Yes," Enjolras stated, smoke pouring from his mouth. Grantaire waited, obviously thinking he was going to continue. Enjolras had no intention of doing so.

  


Suddenly, Enjolras' cigarette disappeared from his fingers. Grantaire dropped it to the pavement, and stomped on it with his Sperry's

  


"Hey-" Enjolras yelled, stepping away from the wall.

  


And ran into the door as it opened. Javert emerged.

  


"Hello, sir," Grantaire sung with a charming smile, winking at Enjolras as he unashamedly smoked his cigarette. 

  


Javert was furious, sputtering some handbook rules that were being violated.

  


"Chill," Grantaire said, an edge of sadness to his otherwise jovial expression.

  


A momentary déjà vu stopped Enjolras cold. He furrowed his brow and locked eyes with Grantaire. Grantaire returned the look, his eyes sobering.

  


"Do you condone this kind of behavior?" Javert asked, eyes on Enjolras. Enjolras blinked out of his reverie.

  


"What?"

  


"Were you smoking?"

  


Enjolras saw Grantaire shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. Enjolras imitated him.

  


"Why didn't you come get me?"

  


"He was just about to," Grantaire said, dropping his cigarette next to Enjolras' and stomping it out also. "The little nark."

  


Javert didn't respond. Instead, he ushered Grantaire into the building, sharp noises following them inside.

  


Enjolras ran a hand over his face and cussed under his breath. The realization of how close that was finally hit him and he burst into laughter. He kicked the now-damp cigarette, missing it.

  


He stopped laughing, revving down as he stared down at the two crushed cigarettes. Expensive-looking even in their current state.

  


He failed to go back into the building. He left his book bag in his locker.

  


\--------

  


Enjolras rolled up to a farm house thirty minutes outside city limits. The light emanating from the windows glowed faintly against the darkness of the surrounding wilderness. Picturesque and welcoming, it was the stark contrast of the winter wind that threatened to become hindering.

  


Enjolras, in ratty clothes, knocked on the door. Grantaire, in sleek sweats and labeled shirt, answered and ushered him inside.

  


Two glasses of something brown and strong were set down on a mahogany coffee table, along with a half-empty bottle with a worn label. They drank in pointed silence.

  


-

  


"I'm not saying that 9/11 was the harbinger of the end of America, but-" Grantaire said, pointing an unsteady finger like he'd already made his point.

  


"That was like a million years ago," Enjolras stated, his head leaned against the back of the couch. "How could that possibly affect us now?"

  


"No, you don't- it's fine, man, you just don't even get it."

  


"God, shut up," Enjolras groaned, grabbing a fist full of Grantaire's t-shirt.

  


Grantaire suddenly leaned in brushing his lips against Enjolras'. Enjolras didn't respond at first, his mind foggy and distant. His hand gripped his shirt harder, before he deepened the kiss, bringing Grantaire down with him as he slid back into the couch. Grantaire pushed Enjolras' shirt up, fingers digging into the taut skin at his waist.

  


Enjolras' other hand drowned in Grantaire's head of black curls. He licked into Grantaire's mouth, eliciting a throaty moan. Grantaire pulled Enjolras' threadbare shirt off, hands gliding over thin shoulders to cup a slender face as his hips rolled forward. Enjolras' hand moved down to Grantaire's hipbone, pushing down his sweat pants and sliding back.

  


Enjolras' mind registered static; a disconnect from his actions, his body, the boy in front of him. He untangled himself enough to look down at Grantaire and it was like seeing him through smudged glass, a distance from reality. His hand felt the warmth of Grantaire's skin, felt Grantaire's fingers becoming unknowingly entangled in his hair, felt their bodies pressed together against the plush of the expensive couch; but it refused to consolidate in his mind properly.

  


"Tell me I'm here," Enjolras murmured, brushing his cheek against Grantaire's, his hand gliding up his back.

  


"You're here," Grantaire responded dutifully, pulling him into a kiss again, then, whispering against his lips, "I'm here, too."

  


Enjolras nodded his head, holding himself as close to Grantaire as was physically possible.

  


"I've been letting go too much lately," Enjolras admitted, brow furrowing as Grantaire's hands found untouched skin. "I don't know..."

  


"Then don't know," Grantaire breathed, "We're so fucking young. Why are we expected to know?"

  


"Easy for you to say," Enjolras groaned, strangled. Grantaire found where Enjolras had gone hard, a thin cotton between his hand and Enjolras' erection. "Oh, God."

  


Grantaire pressed teeth to Enjolras' neck, a chuckle brushing Enjolras' skin with his thick breath. Enjolras squirmed, face pinching as Grantaire pushed the pants out of the way, his bare hand stroking his member. Enjolras whined, trying to jerk into Grantaire's grip.

  


Suddenly Grantaire grabbed Enjolras' waist, pushing him off him and gracelessly guiding both of them to the floor. He held Enjolras' hands above his head, their fingers lacing, kissing him hard into the soft carpet. Enjolras rolled his hips forward, sharply aware of the hardness growing in Grantaire's sweats.

  


Grantaire disentangled, releasing Enjolras' fingers, smirking as he went down. Enjolras' hand gripped Grantaire's hair, Grantaire's tongue trailing lazily towards Enjolras' insistent hard-on.

  


"Don't stop," Enjolras bit out, fingers clinging to Grantaire's hair with white knuckles. Grantaire tongued him from base to tip, before taking him into his mouth. "Jesus, R."

  


Grantaire made a noise in the back of this throat, like a laugh, holding Enjolras down as he came back up. Enjolras groaned in exasperation.

  


"So I'm still R?" He laughed, mocking. "Literally your dick in my mouth-"

  


"Fucking blow me, you piece of shit," Enjolras growled, "This isn't even worth the trouble."

  


Grantaire's face became suddenly serious.

  


"This is literally the fellatio of a lifetime," He whispered.

  


"Prove it."

  


Grantaire went back down with relish. 

  


Enjolras bucked into his mouth, and, instead of holding him down, Grantaire allowed it. Grantaire's throat muscles worked against Enjolras' dick, his tongue pressing and pushing.

  


"Fuck-" Enjolras keened, his fingers spreading against the back of Grantaire's head, cradling him against his hips, the other hand clenching the couch cushion above his head. "I'm close."

  


Grantaire's hand found its way to Enjolras' ass, fondling the soft skin there and pressing his lower back upward. Enjolras came in the back of Grantaire's throat, humming into his  own shoulder. 

  


Grantaire sat up, wiping his mouth and kicking off his pants. His hand gripped his own erection. Enjolras propped himself up on his elbow, trembling lightly, seeing Grantaire's resignation.

  


He propelled himself forward, accidentally hitting the coffee table as he did so, and placed his hand over Grantaire's where it stroked his dick, his mouth imperfectly finding Grantaire's, and yanked Grantaire's shirt up, his other hand resting on Grantaire's heaving chest. Grantaire turned his head, moaning something Enjolras didn't understand.

  


"What?" Enjolras breathed, labored.

  


"I'm no-" Grantaire sighed, interrupted by his orgasm, his back arching, lifting Enjolras. He bit the inside of his cheek, suppressing the loud noise that threatened to escape him.

  


He pushed Enjolras off, so that they were both laying on the carpet, face up, vaguely aware of the spilled alcohol where they'd pushed the coffee table around.

  


"Shit," Grantaire groaned, scrubbing his face with the hand that didn't have cum on it. Enjolras turned his head to gaze at him, slightly dazed by the alcohol and the turn of events.

  


There was a lot Enjolras suddenly wanted to say, but elected not to say anything. Most of it was emotionless shit about the logistics of how he imagined this relationship would work, things he didn't think he'd be able to coherently talk about then.

  


Grantaire suddenly picked himself up off the floor, pulling his shirt the rest of the way off as he went. He moved the coffee table out of the way, plucking the slick glasses up and ambling towards the kitchen. Enjolras stayed prostrated, the world slightly off-kilter around him. He closed his eyes, trying to dispel the feeling.

  


"Hey," Grantaire called from the door. Enjolras looked up, squinting. "The bathroom's down that hall and on the right. Go clean up."

  


Enjolras got up in stages, wincing at the damages, and picked his clothes off the floor. There were stains on the carpet.

  


"Is that going to come out?" Enjolras said loud enough for Grantaire to hear.

  


"Don't know, don't care,"

  


Enjolras looked down at it, feeling something hollow in his chest.

  


He hurried off to the bathroom.

  


-

  


He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wiped the fog off, an electric razor in one hand. He flicked it on, then flicked it off, startled by the noise.

  


A knock at the door.

  


"I found some fresh clothes," Grantaire said through the door.

  


"Okay," Enjolras said, then flicked the razor on and off again.

  


"Can I come in?"

  


"Sure,"

  


Grantaire opened the door and stared at Enjolras.

  


"You okay?"

  


"Yeah," Enjolras flicked the razor on again.

  


-

  


"Ready?" Grantaire asked, taking a shot and holding a buzzing razor over Enjolras' head. He nodded.

  


His hair fell unceremoniously, gathering in frizzy lumps around the worn wooden chair, scattering across the linoleum floor of the kitchen. It didn't take nearly as long as Enjolras thought it would. 

  


"Holy shit," Grantaire guffawed, holding a clump of it in his hand, "you look fucking intense."

  


"God forbid," Enjolras joked, running his palm over the fuzz that remained.

  


"My mom-" Grantaire started, then stopped, shutting his mouth dramatically.

  


"What?"

  


"Nothing,"

  


"What?"

  


"My mom has make-up," Grantaire said, "Here, I mean. I mean you look like a fucking alternative model already."

  


"Fucking hell," Enjolras laughed, shaking his head to feel the lack of hair. "What the fuck are you fucking talking about?"

  


"I don't know," Grantaire sat down on the floor, amidst Enjolras' hair. "I'm tired."

  


Enjolras nodded, standing up and pulling Grantaire with him. 

  


They shambled to the bedroom, Grantaire's hand firmly on Enjolras' buzzed head.

  
"Wait, hold on," Grantaire said, pushing Enjolras up against the hallway wall outside the bedroom and snogging him with lazy, insistent movements. He broke away almost as suddenly, pushing the jarred door open and finding the bed. Enjolras followed him, throwing himself on the bed next to him, and allowing the spinning room to rock him to sleep.


End file.
